Someone else's life

This is the beginning of what I had hoped would be a short journey. Now it looks like I might be in for a fairly long haul. But I have never been one to quit something just because it is hard, so here we go.

I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia on March 8, 2012. I have an amazing husband of nearly nine years, and together we have two children: a son who is nearly four, and a daughter who is 10 months old.

Needless to say, leukemia was not in my plan for 2012. In fact, I had enormous plans for 2012. I am halfway through a PhD in Political Science, specializing in children in armed conflict, and I had just transferred from Carleton University to the University of Minnesota, one of the top political science programs in the United States. I was planning to go to Minnesota in April to complete an exam and get my research proposal approved. Then we were going to spend the summer packing up our home, practicing Spanish, and preparing to move to Quito, Ecuador, where I would conduct my fieldwork for eight to 12 months.

That was my plan. Clearly, this is someone else's.

In February, I was snowboarding with my brothers and running up the hills around Vancouver. In March, I was hospitalized in Ottawa with extremely low blood counts, a raging fever, deep cough, sinus infection, and multiple other problems. I was put on anti-virals, two different antibiotics, and anti-fungal medication (among other drugs). I had a broncoscopy, two chest x-rays, a CT scan, an ultrasound, and a central line called a Hickman catheter inserted into my chest. (This last procedure I opted to do without sedation so I could see my kids immediately afterwards, and I have to say, I would not recommend doing that.) And all of this happened only one week after my husband returned from several months overseas.

Now I am not one to whine, but this was by far the scariest thing I had ever experienced. I have always scoffed at the TV show House because I never believed that multiple doctors would ever be attending one single patient. Yet there I was, with four doctors in my room, all looking dramatically grim. No one knew what was wrong with me, or if they did, they weren't telling. Until they did. It was acute leukemia. In a few days I would have to start chemo. My mind went numb. The doctor was still talking but all I heard was "leukemia." I thought that it must be a mistake, that this must be someone else's life.

First of all, I am not the kind of person who is supposed to get cancer. I eat ridiculously healthy things like quinoa and kale. I use organic, chemical-free lotions and make-up. I run daily, and I run hard. I do yoga, I lift weights, I take vitamins, and I drink tons of water. Admittedly, my life was overloaded with stress, but still... in those lists of "how to prevent cancer," I could check off almost every item. And yet, there I was, on the leukemia ward fighting for my life.

Cancer, it turns out, does not necessarily care if you eat kale.

Meanwhile, I had been put on isolation due to my chest infection, and that meant that all of my visitors had to wear gloves and masks with visors. My children were not (and still are not) allowed to visit, and I was not allowed to leave my room. The physiotherapist saw my eyes go a little wild at the thought of being so confined, and she kindly brought a stationary bike into my room. So every morning, through the chemo and afterwards, I dragged my IV pole over to the window, put on my ipod with my favourite running mix, and got on the bike. Moving made me feel more human, like I was still part of the living, like I was still me.

Yet I also had to giggle at how ridiculous it all was. There I was, listening to music that I used to run with daily, and wearing shoes that I had worn when I broke 20 minutes in a 5k race. And now I was pedalling slowly on a stationary bike, in my hospital gown, attached to an IV dumping poison into my veins. So much for that organic diet.

But I am still here. And I am still moving. I will not be taken down so easily.